Brah-rillas in the mist

The pool is a redneck-voice string quartet. The grumbling overlaps and shouted crescendos of beer- and sun-thickened male voices.

Dynamics, people. It’s exquisite. And amid the greater life-force of symphonic harmony, a few melodic phrases, if you will, make themselves distinct. Here they are, transcribed from a patio behind the hedge that surrounds the pool and makes eavesdropping easy.

-”Michelob Ultra? It’s fuckin’ pretty goddamn good.” [1]

“The only time I’m drinking that is when I’m drinking with my dad. Other than that I’m like ‘fuck that’ [becomes indistinguishable]”

-”Michelob Ultra skinny cans? They’re better than the bottle. … the tall, skinny cans, they taste way better.”

-”Listen, if I put a penny in this fuckin’ bottle every time I said the fuck word, you’d be a rich fuckin’ woman.”

-”311 re-did it but I can’t think of what it is.”

At this point the conversation becomes hopelessly muddled because Bob Marley’s “Jammin’” starts playing. All too perfect, but true. Someone rolls over a cooler with plastic wheels. Greeting, whoops, splashes.

[1] This may be the first account ever of anyone actually asserting that Michelob Ultra is a good beer.

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